


Down and Shaking When I Think I Lose

by satin_doll



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Background - Freeform, Character Study, Childhood, Developing Relationship, F/M, Feels, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-30 00:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15084959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/pseuds/satin_doll
Summary: Please. Just. Stop.





	Down and Shaking When I Think I Lose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OhAine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/gifts), [GettingOverGreta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GettingOverGreta/gifts).



> For OhAine, first and always, with love and thanks for understanding and keeping me going. 
> 
> For GettingOverGreta, for her beautiful weirdness and humor which continues to inspire me.

Mr. Hofner watched through the first floor window as the boys below in the schoolyard circled their prey. The thin one with the strange, pale eyes and the mop of dark curls turned slowly trying to see which one of the four around him would strike first, but he couldn’t keep an eye on all of them at once. It was Bellamy that lashed out with his heavy shoe, catching the prisoner in the shin, leaving behind a stripe of scuffed skin and a little blood.

After that first blow, the others joined in, pushing and poking with fists, pulling handfuls of hair, kicking and swearing. Hofner winced as a fist connected with a cheekbone. He supposed he should have stopped them, should have stepped in to protect the victim when he first noticed what was happening. He was no stranger to bullying. He was also no stranger to the embarrassing pontifications of the boy in the center of the ruckus. More than once he had been humiliated by statements about his personal life in front of the class, things the boy had no way of knowing, had no _right_ to know.

Hofner turned away from the window and began straightening papers on his desk.

*****

The thin, bony young teenager was entirely naked as he marched up the path toward his dormitory. He made no effort to hide his nakedness from the other boys who stood giggling and pointing as he passed them; he walked straight and upright and as normal as one could walk in that situation.

He was shivering, pebbled with goosebumps; a few scrapes and bruises stood out against his pale skin, which was turned almost bluish from the cold. It had been a long walk from the woods where they had lured him with promises of smokes and dirty pictures. He had thought they were actually _including_ him this time. He should have known. They would never include him. Never. He was the green monkey and they would destroy him any way they could. At least they would try. His one consolation was the black eye that Laurence would be sporting the next few days. He had managed to connect at least once during the struggle as they held him down and stripped him. He had no doubt his clothes were in the pond by now.

On his long, frigid walk back to the school, he had made a vow to himself: He would never give them the satisfaction of thinking they had won, of thinking they had wounded him.

And he would never again look to be included in anything.

*****

The girl was attractive in a hookerish sort of way. Nothing blatant or outrageous. But not the girl one would take home to meet Mummy. Handsome Joey, leaning against the courtyard wall, winked at her as she tripped by on the arm of the tall, lanky young man - the one with the odd eyes that no one could remember the color of, the one with the thick dark curls who was strangely graceful even with the two o’clock staggers.

The girl winked back at Joey. She knew him well. She had been a frequent visitor to his room after hours, sneaked in by various schemes with the help of his mates. She didn’t know why they thought they had to pay her to shag this one; he was different, yes, but excitingly attractive in some exotic, mysterious way. She hadn’t had to pretend she wanted him after she’d seen him nursing his pint at the pub. And it hadn’t taken much to convince him to buy her drinks or to bring her back to his room.

He was drunk but not falling-down, blackout drunk. He shouldn’t have any trouble getting it up. They fell onto the unmade bed immediately, no pretenses about why she was there or what he wanted from her. Less than memorable sex, a few call-me-sometime kisses and she was on her way out the door. Handsome Joey stood in the doorway with some of his pals, loud, laughing, making sure the lanky young man in the bed saw them hand her the money. She felt a little bad for him. If she had known they were going to be mean about the whole thing she might have thought twice about doing it. She looked back at the bed with its oddly attractive occupant, saw the hard, ugly look he gave her and shivered. She grabbed the money and ran down the hall.

*****

He grew used to the names over the years, grew used to being alone. He told himself he didn’t care. Their opinions didn’t matter. It wasn’t his fault they were idiots. He drowned out the name calling with drugs and alcohol when he was bored. He shunned them the rest of the time, made them invisible. Of course this riled them more, made them hate him more. Occasionally he entertained himself by telling them things about themselves, laying their secrets bare in front of others. After a while they left him alone except for a rude name here and there.

People who didn’t know who he was were drawn to him. The women...he knew what he looked like. He also knew that part of the attraction was his unavailability; it was a challenge to them. He didn’t understand the courting game - most of the games people played with each other puzzled and confused him. Men were often drawn to him for reasons they didn’t understand. They seemed to be fascinated by his brilliance at the same time they were repelled by it. They saw power in him but it wasn’t the kind of power with which they were familiar. All of them wanted to bring him down to their level, to ‘normalise’ him, make him like them, make him play by the rules. When he wouldn’t they became angry. It didn’t bother him; their anger was like white noise, always in the background wherever he was. He got used to it.

His parents had tried to help early on by sending him to therapists, psychiatrists. The diagnoses ran the gamut from various personality disorders to ADHD to autistic. The one he pissed off the most called him a sociopath. He thought that was a good label; it suited him. So that’s what he called himself. It seemed to work well at keeping the “friendlies” away.

The competition with his older brother was a source of frustration and sadness to his parents, but they quickly realised there was nothing they could do. For him it was do or die; for his brother it was just another game at which he excelled, another lesson for the little brother, another exercise and proof of his superiority. Younger brother would have been astounded and quite probably murderously angry if he ever found out the truth.

He had no idea what to do with himself after uni. There were no jobs he could even consider. His chem certification was useless without a place to work. He knew what he could do, but convincing others...that was a problem. He was bored, frustrated, angry. Drugs worked for temporary fixes, like plugging a leak in a pipe with gum or resin. Eventually even drugs didn’t work and the risk began to outweigh the usefulness.

It was stumbling across a crime scene as it was being processed that finally opened up his life.

*****

She stood quietly looking down at the body on the table for a moment, as she always did. He was never sure why she did this; part of her process, he supposed, preparing herself for the work ahead of her perhaps. Often her mouth would move as if she was speaking quietly to the corpse, explaining to it what to expect, introducing herself. Whatever her reasons, he found it oddly amusing to watch.

He liked watching her work. She was more than competent at what she did, was more observant than most. She took pride in her work; it wasn’t just a job and a paycheck to her. He liked that.

As she flipped on the recorder, drew back the sheet and made her initial observations, he found himself drifting in his mind, making random deductions about her: what kind of morning she had had (she was well rested, obviously had been able to sleep the night before, which he knew wasn’t always the case, coffee and pastry for breakfast - she would regret that later; she had taken her time getting dressed, her clothes actually matched somewhat today); what plans she had tor the day, for the evening after work.

They weren’t friends, exactly; he didn’t have friends and he wasn’t exactly friendly towards her, though he knew she was attracted to him and used this to his advantage sometimes to get what he wanted from her.

He was never quite sure when the not-friendship turned to something much more. He only knew that, somewhere along the way, she became the most important person in his life.

*****

There were times when it all broke down, and he didn’t have access to the words. He had all the words he needed, but he couldn’t seem to _get_ to them, and he resorted to other means: eye rolling, screaming, sarcasm, petty insults. _Deductions_.

He just got so tired.

Start. Slow. Stop. Start, sudden stop. Slow, slow, stop, start again. If he was an engine, he’d be worn to nothing by now. Sometimes he thinks he’s worn to nothing anyway.

Sometimes he wanted to be worn to nothing.

He was so tired of the endless explaining. He wished that just once someone would catch on and follow along, would instantaneously understand, and he wouldn’t have to stop and

Wait for them to catch up

Wait for them to understand

Wait for them to see the obvious

Wait for them to make the connections, plug into the meanings, see the patterns, to _understand_.

He wished that just once, he didn’t have to explain _everything_.

The exhaustion was a weight he carried, an exhaustion of spirit. He was whipped with constrained rage, screaming inside “How can you not _know_! How can you not _see_ it!” until the weight was too much and he collapsed into whatever respite was available _drugs_ , _sex_ , _sleep_ ( _not_ _often_ ) only to wake and begin again. Start. Slow. Stop. Slow, slow. Stop. Start. STOP.

Stop.

_Stop_.

Please. Just. Stop.

*****

“Why does he have to be like that?”

Lestrade raked a hand across his short, salt-and-pepper hair, and swore under his breath, as he watched Sherlock disappear with a swirl-and-billow of coat through the morgue doors.

John shrugged and turned away. He was used to the behavior, let it roll off him like water off a duck’s back, and ignored it.

Molly sighed and stared at the floor, fighting back tears - tears of outrage and sympathy and understanding.

She knew why he had to be like that.

*****

The dark silky curl slipped through her fingers and she let her hand fall gently to the warm skin on the back of his neck, then slowly trailed the hand down across his shoulder to his back and let it rest there. He was lying half on top of her, his head pillowed on her breasts, face turned toward the window. His breathing slowed and his body finally (finally!) relaxed as he fell into a doze.

He was heavy, but she didn’t mind the weight. She never minded when he did this, just as he didn’t seem to mind her hands roaming lightly over his skin while he dozed. Mutual comfort, she supposed. God knew they both needed some comfort.

There were times she wondered why he finally succumbed and came to her, times (fewer) she wondered why she accepted it. Part of it was love, at least on her part. She had always loved him, probably from the moment she first met him, and always would. Part of it was simple loneliness. She didn’t have all that many choices or opportunities to connect with others.

Part of it was knowing he had nowhere else to go.

Not pity. No, never that. Sympathy, perhaps, or empathy; that feeling of knowing what it was like, not wanting anyone, ever, to feel that way.

He would show up at her door, exhausted, ragged with need, and she would give him whatever balm she could to ease him through the night. Sometimes it was food and quiet talk; sometimes it was raging sex, sometimes it was just sleep.

She moved her thumb across a ridge of muscle in his back, enjoying the tactile connection.

Whatever the reasons, they were both still and content for the moment. They both had respite from the irritants of the world for this moment, and, for this moment, that was enough.


End file.
